I lived with my parents in Belarus, and I went to Russian

Host:
The apartment block stood gray against a pale sky, its walls scarred with time and the quiet dignity of endurance. The snow fell like ash, slow and deliberate, covering the broken pavement, the rusted swing set, the line of cracked concrete balconies where laundry swayed stiffly in the cold wind. A dog barked somewhere in the distance — sharp, lonely, echoing through the corridors of a forgotten post-Soviet morning.

Inside, the kitchen light buzzed, flickering like a hesitant thought. A radio hummed in the corner, caught between static and melody — some old Russian tune about home, or longing, or both.

Jack sat at the table, nursing a chipped enamel cup of tea, his breath visible in the chill air. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around her own cup for warmth. The wallpaper behind them was peeling, but the room had a strange beauty — the beauty of survival.

Jeeny: “Yung Lean once said — ‘I lived with my parents in Belarus, and I went to Russian kindergarten, which is where I learned Russian. Belarus had just become an independent country; there was no food in the supermarkets, so it looked very post-war, very Soviet.’”
Jack: [nodding slowly] “I can picture it — that emptiness. Those gray shelves, fluorescent lights humming over nothing.”
Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? The way memory preserves scarcity — not just what was missing, but how it felt.”
Jack: “Yeah. Hunger becomes atmosphere.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. He wasn’t just describing a place — he was describing a generation born into aftermath.”
Jack: “The ghosts of one system, the confusion of another. Childhood in transition.”

Host:
A tram bell rang faintly outside, cutting through the stillness. The air smelled faintly of coal smoke and cabbage, the scent of both poverty and perseverance. Jeeny glanced toward the frost-covered window, where the reflection of the city shimmered like an old photograph.

Jack: “You know, there’s something poetic in how he tells it. Not romantic — just… honest. A memory without decoration.”
Jeeny: “That’s what makes it powerful. The world was rebuilding, but the children didn’t see politics — they saw empty shelves and cold classrooms.”
Jack: “And somehow, that’s enough to define a soul.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. You inherit not just the past, but its silence.”
Jack: “You think that’s why so many artists come from broken worlds? Because when everything collapses, imagination’s the only thing left standing?”
Jeeny: “Yes. Art grows best in ruins. Because ruins ask questions stability never does.”

Host:
The radiator groaned weakly, releasing a hiss of warmth that never quite reached the corners. The clock on the wall ticked irregularly — a relic of a time when precision was propaganda. Jack’s eyes softened, his voice lowering to something between reflection and ache.

Jack: “You know, when he says ‘post-war,’ it’s not just about war itself. It’s about the aftertaste of ideology — when the dream dissolves and the hunger sets in.”
Jeeny: “Belarus in the ’90s — independence meant identity crisis. Freedom came, but the stomach still growled.”
Jack: “Freedom without food — the cruelest irony.”
Jeeny: “Yes. The nation learned democracy in lines for bread.”
Jack: [sighing] “And kids learned resilience in cold kitchens.”
Jeeny: “Resilience… or nostalgia. Sometimes the two are twins.”

Host:
A child’s laughter drifted up faintly from the courtyard below, pure and sharp against the heavy quiet. Jeeny smiled, the sound cutting through her seriousness like sunlight through fog.

Jeeny: “It’s funny — how memory filters pain into art. Lean turned his Soviet childhood into music that sounds like digital melancholy.”
Jack: “Yeah. Synthesizers instead of sirens.”
Jeeny: “You think he’s still haunted by those gray days?”
Jack: “Haunted, maybe. But also shaped. You can’t grow up surrounded by scarcity and not see abundance differently.”
Jeeny: “Scarcity teaches appreciation — and detachment. You learn not to trust comfort.”
Jack: “Because comfort’s fragile. It vanishes faster than hunger.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s why his art feels weightless — but sad. It’s the sadness of someone who remembers concrete walls and snow that fell like silence.”

Host:
The radio crackled, then caught a clearer signal — a female voice reading poetry in Russian, her tone low and rhythmic, words falling like candlelight in the cold. Neither Jack nor Jeeny understood every word, but they didn’t need to. Meaning, like music, often survives translation.

Jack: “You know, I envy that kind of beginning in a way.”
Jeeny: [raising an eyebrow] “Envy?”
Jack: “Yeah. When you start with nothing, even imagination feels like luxury. People born into comfort forget what dreams cost.”
Jeeny: “True. But growing up in scarcity also brands you — it builds a kind of sadness that never leaves, even when you succeed.”
Jack: “You mean guilt?”
Jeeny: “Guilt, gratitude, survival — they all blur together.”
Jack: “Like faded paint on an old wall.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. The past doesn’t disappear. It just becomes the texture underneath everything you build.”

Host:
The snow outside thickened, swirling in uneven flurries. The streetlight flickered, its glow making the air look sepia, cinematic. The city — both decaying and alive — seemed to hold its breath.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how people talk about Soviet nostalgia?”
Jack: “You mean that strange longing for something that hurt them?”
Jeeny: “Yes. It’s not love for the regime — it’s love for the rhythm of certainty. The illusion of order.”
Jack: “Even when it starved them.”
Jeeny: “Especially then. Hunger was simple. Freedom’s confusing.”
Jack: “So when Lean says ‘post-war, very Soviet,’ he’s mourning a ghost he never met — the structure of suffering.”
Jeeny: “Yes. Because chaos, even when it promises freedom, still feels like loss.”

Host:
A gust of wind shook the windowpane, rattling the fragile glass in its old wooden frame. Jack got up, walking to the window, wiping away the condensation with his sleeve. The reflection of the city merged with his own — two worlds overlapping: one made of glass, the other of memory.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought independence was the end of struggle. Now I see it’s just the start.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Political freedom doesn’t fill shelves or hearts. It just removes excuses.”
Jack: “And leaves people face-to-face with their own emptiness.”
Jeeny: “Which is why art matters — it fills that space with meaning when material life can’t.”
Jack: “So maybe Lean’s music — his weird, floating sadness — is his way of building a new country out of sound.”
Jeeny: “A homeland of emotion.”
Jack: “Exactly. One without borders, but with memory.”

Host:
The clock ticked louder now, as if reminding them both that time itself was the one dictator that still ruled all. Jeeny looked down at her hands, tracing the rim of her cup absently.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what he meant when he said it looked ‘very post-war.’ It wasn’t just about destruction. It was about beginning again. From nothing.”
Jack: “The hardest art of all.”
Jeeny: “The most necessary one.”
Jack: “You think life ever stops being post-war?”
Jeeny: “No. Every peace carries the memory of what it survived.”
Jack: [quietly] “Then maybe that’s what keeps us human.”
Jeeny: “Not peace, but the pursuit of it.”

Host:
The radio fell silent. Only the ticking clock and the faint whisper of wind remained. Outside, the snow softened into a steady fall — white against gray, hope against history. Jack sat back down, his cup empty, his expression distant but calm.

And as the light from the single bulb dimmed,
the truth of Yung Lean’s words lingered like the echo of an old song —

that childhood in ruins
teaches beauty by contrast,
that emptiness becomes a kind of education,
and that the post-war landscape — gray, hungry, uncertain —
was not just a place,
but a state of being.

For every generation inherits both the wounds and the wonder
of those who came before.
And from the silence of scarcity
emerges the first whisper of art —

not as imitation,
but as survival.

Because to remember the cold,
to name the hunger,
and still create beauty from it —

is how life,
once broken,
learns again
to sing.